Violin
by Jen ConsultingWriters
Summary: Sherlock returns to Baker Street after three years. He and John go after Moran, the last strand left in Moriarty's web.


_**Sherlock's return to Baker Street, using ACD canon "The Adventure of the Empty House" as a template. Johnlock if you squint. Reviews are always appreciated.  
**_

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John dreamt of somebody playing the violin. He woke up, in the middle of the night, certain he could hear the sounds of somebody very softly playing Sherlock's violin. Every night, he listened to it, letting it lull him back into sleep; every morning, he woke up to find the violin in the precise same place it had been the night before. Untouched, unused, the owner long gone.

He didn't notice the rosin on the bow, the perfectly tuned strings, the way the violin shone with life in a flat descending rapidly into squalor and dust. Perhaps he did notice, blamed these thoughts and sights on his pervasive grief. He ignored what Sherlock had tried to impart to him for eighteen months, and looked at the violin without seeing it, ignoring the obvious details. Looking without seeing, without _observing_.

Sherlock liked to return to the flat, now and again; he was drawn to it without intention, without any sense of ulterior motive. He knew John wouldn't want to see him; Sherlock had announced he was a fraud, told John he was nothing like the person he believed, before jumping off a building. John should have believed him. There was enough evidence, albeit fabricated, to force John to believe that he was a fake.

Sherlock had hoped, exceptionally hard, that John had believed him. He had no intention of disturbing John's new life, whatever life he had managed to construct for himself in Sherlock's absence.

Yet he was still drawn to Baker Street. For the first time in Sherlock's life, he was forced to admit that he had found a location that felt like a home, and he missed that. He was mostly sleeping rough, occasionally seeing Molly, the only person who knew he was alive.

"You should tell John you're alive," Molly had told him one night, when he had taken refuge in her flat in the hope finding a horizontal surface that had some semblance of comfort. He had looked at her with an expression in his eyes that made her heart physically ache, made her want to tear out her own heart to prevent his from so visibly cracking.

He had covered over the expression seamlessly, predictably, and returned to his previous state of composed thought. He had released that he needed to find somewhere else to stay for a while now, to stop Molly from worrying about him. It didn't help that it had been deep winter, frost forming on every pavement, shuttering up people's homes; he was adept at breaking and entering into deserted flats, which allowed him at least somewhere sheltered. But it was entirely beneath him. He wanted to return to his old life. He simply didn't know where to begin.

Another three months had passed before Molly saw him again. He had been thinner, drawn, cheekbones protruding through his white skin. He enquired after John and Mrs Hudson, had tried to conceal how important those answers were to him. Molly had tried to convince him, again, to tell John he was still alive.

"He needs you," Molly had said simply. "He's not been the same since you… since you died."

Sherlock had been silent for a long moment. Molly had almost given up on him speaking when he suddenly said, in a hoarse voice: "The last time he saw me alive, I told him I was a fraud. He trusted me, and I deliberately made sure that I would die with him knowing I wasn't the person he thought I was. He doesn't need me in his life any more. He should be moving on".

Molly paused for a moment. Then she simply laughed. "You think he believed you? Not for a second. Refused to believe you, first time ever, I might add. He knew you did it to protect him, to make him feel better."

"He didn't believe me?" Sherlock repeated, his intensely blue eyes sparking with a life Molly had forgotten they were capable of.

"Not for a second," Molly repeated. Sherlock stood up.

"Do you have my coat?" he asked. Like returning to the flat, his coat was an extension of himself that he desperately wanted back, a reminder of what he had once been like. Molly nodded, went into her room; she was gone a little while, and when she returned looked slightly the worse for wear. Sherlock actively chose not to analyse her response.

He shrugged on the coat, not bothering with social norms such as thanking her. In the past year, he had had minimal use for social norms that John had instilled; he was quite out of practise now, needed to return to civilised society where he could re-taught how to interact with some degree of normality.

He left Molly's apartment, and headed directly to 221B. He wasn't entirely sure what approach to take. Certainly he wasn't going to wait until John got home, meaning he would instead be compelled to break back into the flat as he did every few nights; John had no conception of how to care for a violin.

Sherlock took his usual route around the back to get into the house, avoiding Mrs Hudson, who had an occasional habit of appearing when least expected. The flat felt heavy. The air itself seemed to be somehow solid, the musty scent of grief and unkemptness. Evidently Mrs Hudson wasn't coming into the flat very often; there were inches of dust where she had missed spots, avoiding items that were patently once Sherlock's.

The flat was now entirely in John's name. Sherlock's will had left every penny he had to John and Mrs Hudson, the bias entirely in John's favour; over many years of consultant detective work, he had acquired quite a bit more than merely a small fortune. John was actually quite phenomenally wealthy now. Sherlock got the distinct impression John wouldn't have touched any of it.

Sherlock took a few long strides to the sofa, and sat down. It was remarkably comfortable, more so than he remembered. He closed his eyes, rested his chin on his fingers, and waited.

He heard the downstairs door opening, heard Mrs Hudson and John exchange precious few in the way of words. John started to make his way up the stairs, even his footsteps sounding weary.

Sherlock didn't move. He sat on the sofa and looked up as the door slid open; John didn't see him initially, his eyes scanning over the presence on his sofa and focusing on the rest of the room with a sigh, making Sherlock's heart hammer a little louder.

Maybe John heard it; he twisted his body around and focused his eyes on Sherlock's shadowy form, sitting on his sofa as though he had never left, as though it was merely another day at Baker Street, Holmes waiting for Watson to breeze in through the door with eyeballs in the fridge and Sherlock's things scattered haphazardly everywhere. The latter was still true of the apartment; Watson hadn't moved very much in the months since returning to Baker Street.

"Oh god," he whispered, blood rushing from his face and leaving him a strangely pale, almost green colour. "Oh, my god."

"Evening," Sherlock said, deigning to stand up, facing his old roommate for the first time in almost three years. John seemed very quickly to be on the verge of collapse, his face now beginning to flush as he started hyperventilating on the spot. "I'd sit down," Sherlock advised, keeping himself still so as not to startle John any more than he already had.

"You'd… Of course you would," John gasped, sucking in whooping gulps of air while Sherlock stared at him, impassive as ever, his face that same marble monument it had ever been, drawn tighter over the years of absence but still very much himself. John was faced with no choice as to sitting when his legs buckled; Sherlock was in immediate motion, catching John as he fell and drawing him closer to the sofa, sitting him in what he hoped was a position of relative comfort.

Sherlock was watching him with something that almost resembled a human approximation of concern, sharp eyes invading his consciousness and almost sending him back into hyperventilation.

"Do calm down, I have no wish to try and resuscitate you," Sherlock said, his usually crisp tone holding a warmth of worry John didn't remember hearing, not since over a year previously.

John's mind and body simultaneously decided to stage a rebellion. Sherlock watched as John's eyes went misty, and his legs seemingly dissolved; Sherlock moved forward to deftly catch his friend, and lower him the rest of the way to the ground, quickly undoing the top button of his shirt so he could breathe more easily.

He looked up, saw the bottle of brandy John kept on the bookshelf for occasional 'medicinal purposes', and brought the entire bottle up to John's slack mouth. Naturally, some spilt down John's shirt, but it was more than sufficient to bring him round again.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock conceded, brow crinkled with uncharacteristic concern. "I really am sorry. I didn't expect such a violent reaction."

"You're alive," John managed, licking his lips to take away the remaining micro-drops of brandy on his lips.

"Yes, well observed," Sherlock said, sounding almost genuinely congratulatory. His hand found John's wrist, capturing it in long, white fingers and taking his pulse while John watched, utterly dumbstruck.

"How?" John continued, still in that awestruck tone that spoke of complete mental chaos. "No, wait, no, don't answer that. Answer this. Why did you take this long to come back?"

It was the inevitable question, and an easy one to answer. "Moriarty's people were still searching for me; I had to take out the entire criminal web, as it were. His key general is still looking, but I have a plan which I intend to implement tonight, to draw him out and ensure his imminent arrest."

"Tell me," John said, his voice a little too mild to be fully dominating. Sherlock gave a calming, gentle smile.

"We have three years to catch up on. That will take us neatly until about nine, at which point I can detail my plan concerning Moran," Sherlock explained, eyes still scanning over John like he expected him to disappear at any given second.

"Okay, fine. Just one question," John said, waiting for Sherlock's answering nod. He picked himself a little, propping his still-weak body against his armchair and positioning himself so he could watch Sherlock's answer very carefully. Sherlock waited, transfixed, slightly dreading the impending question. "Why did you jump in the first place?"

Sherlock's face relaxed, then assumed an air of casual confusion. "Why John, I would have thought that was obvious," he said, sounding politely incredulous at John's sheer stupidity. John's face registered no enlightenment, so Sherlock continued: "He threatened to kill you."

"Oh," John replied.

The silence was deafening.

"So. How is your ill-fated love life?" Sherlock enquired, cracking through the silence with a badly-disguised jab at John's romantic endeavours. John smiled slowly, and the pair began to discuss the adventures that three years apart had offered them.

At nine o'clock that evening, Sherlock announced that they were leaving. "Are you coming?" he asked, and for perhaps the first time, it was a genuine question. Sherlock wasn't sure whether John would agree to come. John tried to mimic Sherlock's earlier expression of polite incredulity.

"Of course I'm coming," John said flippantly, grabbing his coat and walking towards the door of the flat, leaving a slightly shell-shocked Sherlock behind; he grinned widely, picking up his own coat and flying after John.

Sherlock illustrated his extraordinary ability to flag down a taxi instantly, and the pair leapt in, feeling gloriously like old times, flashing John forcibly back three years to the last time he and Sherlock had shared a cab. Sherlock could read the memories across John's face, so intensely readable, an open book.

They were in the cab for an exceptionally long time, Sherlock occasionally calling out instructions, going round in what John heavily suspected were circles; he wasn't really watching the world outside however, far more concerned with the figure inside the cab who he kept looking at and looking at, trying to convince himself the man wouldn't just vanish again.

Sherlock was vaguely concerned; he had expected to be punched, or at least to have one of John's statutory conversations where they attempted to negotiate feelings with some semblance of maturity. He always underestimated John however, that was a running theme in Sherlock's relationship with John, so he guessed that was just his luck – he wasn't going to have a bruised face to contend with.

"Up here on the left," Sherlock said to the cabbie; the cabbie obediently did so, and John looked out the car curiously. Sherlock paid the cabbie, and stepped out into the bracingly cold air of the street.

"Where are we?" John asked lightly, staring around him, trying to find something recognisable. Sherlock merely shook his head, indicating the quiet, empty house in front of them; Sherlock saw the flash of recognition in John's face as he realised they were about to break into said house through the back door. "Here we go again."

Sherlock and John quickly and easily broke the lock, and slipped into the darkened house; John allowed Sherlock to lead, as he always did, following in Sherlock's wake because there was no better place to be.

They approached the window, and to John's shock, he realised they were in the house opposite 221B Baker Street, the one that had been impressively blown up a year previously. The house hadn't been completely finished yet, was draughty and cold, but was more than sufficient cover for the pair of them.

John started to speak, but was distracted by the sight of Sherlock, sitting in 221B Baker Street. The blind was drawn, but the outline of the head was quite indisputably Sherlock's. "How…?"

"It is a waxwork of myself," Sherlock said calmly, looking at his own image with gentle curiosity. "Mrs Hudson has had it in Baker Street since we departed an hour or so ago, and has been rotating it every quarter of an hour, ensuring her silhouette cannot be seen. As such, it has given the impression – and will continue to give the impression – that I am in Baker Street."

John watched it wearily, at the point of getting vaguely irritated with Sherlock's eccentricities. "Yeah, I gathered it was something like that. Why, though?"

"I'm being watched," Sherlock explained. "Moriarty's leading henchman, a man named Moran, is attempting to find me and ideally, shoot me. Ergo, I can be supposedly 'seen' in Baker Street, but remain here, safe from harm. I intend to catch Moran in the act of attempted murder, and have him promptly arrested."

"You'll need police for that," John pointed out fairly, looking around as though expecting Lestrade to pop out of the adjoining door. He instead had the fairly bizarre mental image of a waxwork Lestrade appearing in Baker Street, which was enough to distract him for a moment or two.

"Shh," Sherlock said pointlessly in the burgeoning silence, pointing out the window to a man walking down the street. "We're waiting to see what Moran does, that's Moran." Sherlock held his phone to his ear, listening carefully. "Lestrade? Visual established. John, why is he coming towards this house?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. He pulled away from the window, flattening himself and John against the far wall; a deft movement had him tugging open the door to a partially-constructed en suite bathroom and yanking John in after him. "Say nothing," Sherlock warned him.

The pair barely breathed as they listened to the unmistakable sound of somebody, presumably Moran, pulling open the front door and slipping into the hall downstairs.

"He's not supposed to be here," Sherlock breathed, against the shell of John's ear, his warm breath against John's skin, making him shiver very slightly. "This wasn't part of the plan."

Sherlock could almost hear John's heart hammering his senses augmenting, every part of him becoming more tense as seconds trickled by.

"Breathe slowly, and deeply," Sherlock commanded in his soft, swelling baritone, sounding too loud in the tense quiet of the space around them, despite the minimal volume Sherlock was permitting himself. "Do not speak. Wait."

John did precisely as he was told, keeping his body still, breathing regularly. Sherlock felt John relax slightly, and smiled to himself; John was intensely good at responding to high-stress situations. The tremor in his hand was utterly gone. This was the type of situation John responded best to.

Moran slipped into the pitch-black room, separated from his two listeners by a mere inch and half of wood. The pair listened to him crossing the room towards the window. He stopped there, staring out at 221B; Sherlock knew he was watching 221, would be, in fact, watching the window that he believed he could see Sherlock through.

John and Sherlock held their breath; there were noises, rustles and clicks, the sounds familiar to both listeners – Moran was setting up a gun, with accompanying stand and presumably more precise sights.

There was a sudden crack of a gunshot. "Now," Sherlock said at proper volume; given that they had been whispering, Sherlock's voice at full volume felt almost like a shout. Sherlock noticed that John instinctively seemed to know what to do; he followed Sherlock's lead, yanking open the door and heading towards Moran.

Moran was taken entirely by surprise. Sherlock and John was able to subdue Moran within a matter of seconds, pinned against the floor with his arms wrenched behind him and handcuffed together, John's Browning against the back of Moran's head as he fought and swore violently.

"Lestrade, suspect subdued and in custody," Sherlock said, after a moment. Moran continued to swear and struggle, until Lestrade and the rest of the Yard managed to arrive and deal with him. Lestrade said hello to the pair of them, gave a sincere thanks to Sherlock, and turned to leave.

Sherlock stopped him by managing to prove, quite effectively, that Moran had been involved in a streak of recent murders. Lestrade would realise he was entirely correct, and later be mildly concerned at how much Sherlock had evidently known about the cases. He shouldn't have had access to those case files. But then, _shouldn't have had_ essentially encapsulated everything Sherlock did.

Sherlock and John went through the rigmarole of police procedure, and waited to be released; they returned to Baker Street with palpable relief, to a distraught Mrs Hudson who had another bullet in her wall, a shattered waxwork over her floor, and a shattered hole in the window.

"You'll take it out of our rent, I'm sure," Sherlock said with a smile, scooping Mrs Hudson into a hug that took everybody present by surprise. Mrs Hudson gave an alarmed squeal, her arms flailing slightly in shock; Sherlock released her and she staggered for a second, almost toppling over.

"You're a naughty one, Sherlock," she chastised, shaking her head slightly as she retreated back into her flat, telling them to clear up the wax fragments as she did so. John and Sherlock ascended the steps to their flat, pushing open the door, surveying the damage.

It could have been worse.

"You're alive," John said quietly to himself; Sherlock's bat-like hearing, of course, heard. He twisted around to look at John, his head tilting to one side. He watched John for a long moment.

Anything could have happened in that moment, in retrospect. Either could have acted on any number of impulses, could have set into motion any number of potential events. A myriad of possibilities opened up.

Which was, of course, why Sherlock turned away, picked up his perfectly tuned violin, and began to play a Mendelssohn concerto without so much as another word.

John went to bed, and dreamt of somebody playing the violin. When he woke, as he always did, he took a long moment to himself, listening to the gentle, almost lulling music from the room next door. He smiled to himself as he lay in bed, listening to his Sherlock, back from the dead, playing his violin.

He toppled back into sleep, and dreamt endless of Sherlock and his violin.


End file.
